It's easy to forget sometimes
some simple pleasures:
the way the morning sun makes
skeletons of shadows
long limbed and sharp as knives
A jay's call, shrieking against a sky
it could be fake:
a film set blue,
perhaps a token scudding cloud.
The glint of morning sun
on an open window
bounces life back into your eyes:
remember how that feels?
More birds sing,
more traffic roams,
more gates clang against their posts as
people get to work.
Morning sounds no longer deadened by the
but clear as bells that strike in time
as you walk
a rising clarity in your head -
the world could start to burn,
hell, it might already,
the jay would sing.